


Signs and Signals

by knucklewhite



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Longing, M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 17:20:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9502211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knucklewhite/pseuds/knucklewhite
Summary: When they were boys, the three of them had a series of secret signs and signals. Now Ben and Caleb have their own secret codes, and not just the ones they relay to Washington in waxed paper envelopes.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [callay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/callay/gifts).



As humble as the Woodhull farmstead is, it's still a damn sight better than a muddy woodland clearing in the middle of nowhere. There's warmth and food and a proper fire back home, for a start. But here? Abe can't even feel his hands.

He burrows deeper into his blanket, wedges his hands between his thighs and sighs into his makeshift, sack-cloth pillow. His breath condenses on the coarse fabric, warm for all of three seconds until it chills into clammy wetness against his cheek. He rolls over with a groan.

There's still no sign of Caleb.

Their pitiful fire has smouldered down to red embers now, and Abe can just about make out the shape of Ben's form on the other side of it. He has no idea how Ben can just … sleep here like this. After they'd made camp and eaten, Ben had flopped down like a puppet with its strings cut, had started gently snoring after only a few minutes. It's a soldier's boon, Abe supposes, being able to sleep anywhere at the drop of a hat. Abe had thought all those sleepless nights with Sprout might have hardened his constitution somewhat, but he's been staring at the stars and shifting against the hard ground for a full two hours.

He's not cut out for this spying lark, that's for sure.

Yet Ben and Caleb seem born to this.

It's confusing, how they've both surged ahead of him, competent, accomplished, efficient. Abe had thought he'd done the right thing, staying at home with the farm — growing tangible things from seed and soil, and, indeed, his and Mary's loins — while Ben had gone off to his commission, and Caleb had gone off north to the ice on his whaling ship.

Setauket was the right option, the safe option. But Abe can't help feeling like he took a wrong turn somewhere along the way, like he planted his stake beside one lone tree — wind-buffeted, rainless, ill-nourished. He can't help wondering if that tree will grow strong, or if it might just wither in the ground along with his pitiful cabbage crop. These days, the latter option is looking more likely than ever.

It's selfish to think such things, isn't it? He has a child he loves more than life itself. A wife. A home. A family. He shouldn't be feeling this twist in his gut at seeing Ben in his uniform, dashing and spit-shine polished, like the soldiers they'd admired when they were boys. He shouldn't be feeling this pang at Ben and Caleb's easy camaraderie, the cord of their friendship still strong and true, tied tight with one of Caleb's sailor's knots, while Abe's connection to them seems to have frayed against the years and grown so thin it's in danger of snapping entirely.

The thought sits like vinegar in his belly.

When they were boys, the three of them had a series of secret signs and signals. Two bird-call whistles meant Farmer McKenna was coming and to grab the apples and run. Three raps at the window meant Caleb's pa was drunk and ornery again and could Caleb sleep in the Woodhull barn? A punch on the arm meant hands off, I saw her first.

But now Ben and Caleb have their own secret codes, and not just the ones they relay to Washington in waxed paper envelopes. Abe notes all the evidence in his mental ledger, stacking up the details to build a solid case for the matter, law training used for more than just getting the best price on seed for once.

Exhibits a to c:

a. The way Ben and Caleb finish each other's sentences like they're linked at the head as well as the hip.

b. The way all those casual brushes and touches and hugs mount up into a litany of skin-against-skin, like they're one body instead of two.

c. The way Caleb had laid a hand on Ben's neck and the gesture had drawn out and out, like a fishing net taken by the tide, beyond all common decency, until Ben had seen Abe watching and pulled back from Caleb's touch like he'd been caught with his hand in the apple barrel.

But is it a case Abe is building, or is it a wall instead? Whatever it is, he feels lost and longing on the other side of it, divided from his friends as abruptly as blue from red.

On that thought, Abe finally drifts into a restless sleep, unhappily bumping up against thoughts of Ben whispering into the curve of Caleb's ear, of Caleb tugging on Ben's braid, of them both sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on a log by the fire eating a snatched meal of roast rabbit, their thighs pressed heedlessly close. Of the familiar sound of the bird-call signal they used as boys — a warning, and yet sometimes a welcome.

Abe's eyes drift open. The call comes again: two sharp notes echoing from the tree-line and out across the clearing.

Caleb is back.

The sky is milky with the oncoming dawn — not quite morning yet, but no longer undiluted night. It's light enough for Abe to see that Ben is already alert on the other side of their dying fire, sleep sloughed from him as quick as a cast-off blanket, another soldier's skill. Through sleep-blurred vision, Abe watches Caleb's dark shape move through the camp towards Ben, quick and quiet.

(When they were boys, Caleb would have come to Abe first, would have ripped the blanket from him with a laugh, or pinned him under it and rubbed a cold nose against Abe's neck until Abe yelled and bucked him off.)

Abe remains motionless in the cocoon of his blanket, eyelids at half-mast, feigning sleep. He's not sure why. He's still punch-drunk on what can only be a half-hour's shut-eye, but he also knows that he wants to watch this, to see their greeting from behind this safe, sleep-muzzy wall.

"Mornin', Benny-boy," Caleb whispers, as he squats down beside Ben's bedroll.

"You're tardy, Brewster," Ben says. "We expected you before last light."

Caleb laughs, low and soft. "Did you miss me, then?"

Ben doesn't reply, but even Abe's sleep-blurred brain can tell that something unseen and unspoken passes between them. The knowledge pushes Abe further into wakefulness. His eyes have adjusted to the low light, and he sees Caleb casts a glance in his direction.

"Aw, come on," Caleb says. "He's sleeping."

"Caleb." Ben's voice holds a warning note.

"At least let me steal some of that heat. It's freezing. C'mon, here, you're letting all the good stuff escape."

There's a rustle of cloth.

"Now's not the time," Ben says.

"Now's always the time. Woody won't mind."

Abe's breath catches in his throat as Ben reaches up a hand to clasp the back of Caleb's neck and he pulls Caleb down to his mouth.

They kiss.

And kiss.

The longing in Abe’s gut is a hot coal, is one of the embers still glowing in the heart of their almost-dead campfire. It’s the heat of the sun as it rises over their small campsite.


End file.
